


Arrival at Night Island

by seraphflight



Category: Vampire Chronicles - All Media Types, Vampire Chronicles - Anne Rice
Genre: F/M, Night Island
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-31
Updated: 2018-08-31
Packaged: 2019-07-04 22:55:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,054
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15851109
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/seraphflight/pseuds/seraphflight
Summary: Explore Armand’s famous Night Island through Bianca Solderini’s eyes. Learn about Bianca’s previously untold life, and witness her reunion with Armand.





	Arrival at Night Island

**Author's Note:**

> An old RPG story from circa 2002, in which we explore Armand’s Night Island through Bianca Solderini’s eyes. Learn about Bianca’s life since we last read of her in Anne Rice’s novels, and witness her reunion with Armand. I hope you enjoy this story! Please leave your comments below.
> 
> Anne Rice is the original creator of the characters, of course, and this story has been, is and always will remain 100% non-profit making.

**Arrival at Night Island**

 

 

 

Her sparkling oval blue eyes pierced the enshrouding darkness as easily as the prow of _The Ocean Pearl_ sliced through choppy indigo waters. Resting her exquisitely formed hands on the cold brass rail of her ocean-class yacht, and with the welcoming words of the harbour master crackling over the captain’s radio, she inhaled the fragrant tropical night breezes, wanting to savour the moment.

“Excuse me, Ms Solderini,” the steward hesitated, as he headed along the gleaming deck. “We will be docking at Night Island in about ten minutes.”

A slight smile curled at the edges of her Cupid’s bow lips at this unnecessary information. Her pale, faintly iridescent pink lipstick matched the shade of her perfectly manicured nails. “Thank you. Are my cases packed as I requested?”

“Yes, ma’am.” He waited eagerly for his employer’s response, one foot already hovering inside the cabin door.

“That will be all.” Bianca did not even turn to acknowledge his brief salute.

She was relieved to be alone on the deck once more. She wanted these few minutes to herself. She was used to getting exactly what she wanted, but would this be the homecoming she had occasionally fantasised about? Or would this re-union of companions merely wrench open old wounds? How would it feel to look upon faces once so precious to her? Could her cold, calculating heart feel anything at all? She was not certain which prospect unnerved her the most: pain or numbness.

The harbour lights cast their orange glow over the dark, swirling waters like large amber teardrops. She knew her own loyal staff of seven would be glad to see land again, at least for a little while, after months drifting aimlessly along the coasts of France and Spain, wending into the Adriatic where she had lingered too long, dwelling on the disappointments and resentments which had simmered over the centuries.

Her staff would remain housed on _The Ocean Pearl_ for the duration of her stay. Their free time was their own to use as they wished so long as her strict directives were never broken. She momentarily wished she could remain in her cabin rather than be ensconced in an impersonal hotel, but any such action might imply a rejection of her hosts’ generosity.

At least her visit would assuage her mild interest in the facilities offered by a rival in the hospitality industry. Her yacht provided all she really needed; privacy, security, and her small office with its satellite links to the trusted firms of solicitors and lawyers, through whom she managed her lucrative chain of British health spas, exclusive salons and designer boutiques. She had spent the last thirty years living in the penthouse suite above one such health spa, and going by the name of Beatrice Saunders. But one such as her could only remain in the same place for a certain length of time.  How many probing enquiries into the identity of her imaginary plastic surgeon could she fend off before suspicion and gossip grew too intolerable? Even she, with her quick tongue and seasoned wit, her adroit conversation which could captivate all, could not escape shrewd eyes forever.

Beatrice Saunders had now retired from public life, having sold her business empire to one Ms Solderini.  Ms Solderini would communicate with employees solely through her legal representatives. This was inconvenient, of course, but at least four decades could pass before Bianca would be able to move amongst British high society once more without fear of recognition, until she could offer a believable cover story of being a descendant who merely had an astonishing resemblance to the late beauty business owner.

As the gangplank loudly rattled into position, Bianca left her staff to take care of any necessary paperwork or domestic issues. She quickly strode down the plank and onto the wide path whose cobblestones felt uncomfortable through her white canvas deck shoes.

The harbour was bustling with people, some obviously staff judging from their smart uniforms, but also with other visitors who seemed to be here for the island’s night-time attractions. The harbour-side bars looked appealing; they had drawn large crowds of patrons whose casual attire exuded understated wealth.

The warm night air was heavy with the combined heady aromas of the briny ocean and tropical flowers. All along the harbour front, beneath the thickly overhanging canopy, were robust stone tubs filled with night-scented blossoms. The intricate strains of a Spanish guitar carried from within a tavern, along with the constant hum of contented conversations, the sharp clink of glasses and the constant thrum of feet upon the cobbled waterfront.

Bianca meandered among the crowds until she caught sight of a narrow twisting path which wound uphill, probably towards her hotel. No doubt a more direct route was available had she bothered to find it, but she was in no hurry. She smiled faintly, ran a hand through her long blonde wavy hair, pulled the slender strap of her small Italian leather bag higher over the white shoulder of her sheer silk blouse, and headed onto the path. Her navy-blue linen trousers flattered her petite yet curvaceous figure.

Almost immediately, the clamour of the harbour faded. On either side of her rose towering trees whose stout trunks were clasped by climbing honeysuckle and clematis. Glossy-leaved woodland shrubs, grown to enormous proportions in the humid, tropical conditions, gave shelter to singing birds. Had she ever seen ferns so luscious? She seemed to have inadvertently found a nature trail. Though its dim illumination was of no concern to her, she quickly realised its secluded alcoves had attracted several courting couples. She smiled to herself, glad for them that they had found, for however fleeting a time, some mutual focus for their affections.

The narrow path followed a delightfully gurgling stream, and then it opened unexpectedly onto a truly majestic grove. In the centre stood an ornate Baroque fountain. Bianca lingered for a while, trailing her delicate fingers in the crystal-clear liquid, simply enjoying the tranquil sounds of the tumbling water and of the rustling woodland, which blended almost imperceptibly with increasingly formal gardens stretching towards some deserted tennis courts. She admired the planning which had gone into the clever design of this place, which made the grounds seem much larger than they actually was.

Emerging from the woodland path, Bianca found herself at the base of a long flight of marble steps edged with stone planters. Again, these had been filled with night-scented blooms, their colourful petals a riot of bright loveliness.

Carved stone columns towered on either side of steps, making her accent seem like the approach to an Old World temple. She could hear the fountain before she could see it, and when her eyes feasted upon its three tiers of elaborately carved stone, its torrents of foaming silvery waters, she paused, astonished by the elegance of this place. She had always loved fountains, even as a young girl growing up in her native Florence. Even her jaded emotions responded with warmth to such beauty.

But her gaze was pulled by the mirror-like glass wall of the hotel which now stood directly before her. The foyer doors slid open smoothly as she approached, and though she was faintly reluctant to leave the fabulous gardens so soon, she could not delay her formal arrival any longer.

Bianca scrutinised her reflection. The slender gold bracelet adorning her wrist had been the parting gift of one of her occasional mortal lovers. She had been fond of them all in a distant, half-interested, detached way. She had not truly loved for almost a century – but she refused to think about that now, knowing that others of her kind might spy upon her thoughts if she allowed it. She did not bother to scan for their presences; she already sensed their immortal hearts beating within this glittering abode.

Most of them she knew by reputation only, from the published writings which had so engrossed her human companions. She had long ago eschewed her own kind and had consequently lived in safety. The vampires’ nearness did not disturb her, however; Bianca had not felt any deep emotion for a very long time.

The air-conditioning felt cool against her unusually pale skin as she calmly approached the front desk. The bright electric lighting seemed too harsh after the soft darkness of the shadowed gardens. A pleasant-looking young man looked up from his paperwork, a professional smile ready.

“Good evening,” she quietly said, returning his friendly expression. “My name is Ms Solderini. I believe I am expected?”

From the corner of her eye Bianca observed Amadeo descending the flight of stairs, but she did not immediately turn her head. Despite her many reservations about this proposed reunion, she wanted to savour this moment, to draw it out and commit to perfect memory each nuance of movement, thought and word.

Besides, she was currently writing down the telephone number for her yacht so that the young man behind the counter could arrange for some of her luggage to be brought here. She did not desire that all her things be transferred to the hotel; that was unnecessary and impractical, not only considering the size of her extensive wardrobe but also because she wished to be able to sail away at any given moment. She could easily replace any abandoned items, of course; this was not the issue. Bianca was intensely wary of entering the company of so many of her kind. She had survived largely by avoiding them altogether. 

But now the moment was upon her. She raised her gaze from the sheet of softly textured note paper on which she had written the telephone number in flowing italic script.

First she saw the pale, long-fingered hand come to rest upon the shoulder of the one now addressed as Micah. She saw the crisp, flawless cuff with its diamond cufflinks, the smooth and expensive jacket sleeve, the turn of its sharp collar. Almost tentatively she raised her gaze as Amadeo glided to her side in his inimitable manner. His quiet voice, once so familiar to her, now conveyed the gravity of time.

Bianca’s drank-in the enticingly boyish visage before her. Frozen forever on the verge of manhood, this exquisite façade of beatific charm did not override her knowledge of his true nature. This was no elegantly clad seventeen year-old standing beside her, holding out his elbow like some chivalrous escort at a formal dance. But he was very beautiful. A soft, warm smile slowly curled at the corners of her lips. Without intending to, she raised one hand to pull at the black silk cord with which he had secured his luxurious amber-brown curls. Her smile broadened further as his loosely curling hair tumbled around the shoulders of the sombre suit.

For a fleeting moment she hesitated, glancing at the silk cord in her hand and wondering if she might not have been too presumptuous. Unbidden, the bitter memory of their last meeting, some two centuries ago, flashed through her mind but she quickly banished it, hoping Amadeo had not caught the image.  It was too painful, too bewilderingly cruel, and she did not wish to think about it now.

Bianca gently slipped her hand beneath his offered elbow, and returned his warm smile. Her almond-shaped blue eyes locked onto his warm brown ones, and she whispered, “Amadeo…!” Then she waited for him to lead the way.

Bianca permitted Amadeo to guide her to the stunningly opulent room set aside for her use. For a fleeting moment he seemed once more the eager boy, ravenous for approval and affection, who she had known so long ago. She silently acknowledged this for the illusion she knew it to be. Her hands were as cold as his now; her heart felt little warmer.

She saw the hopeful pride in Amadeo’s ever-beautiful, beatific face as he showed her this flawless imitation of grand Venezia, once the crown jewel of European culture with its generous patronage of all the arts and of the intelligentsia. From the grey-veined marble floor with its hand-woven rugs, all crimson roses and golden cherubs, to the massive white stone fireplace so heavily carved with pendulous fruits, to the antique tapestries adorning the walls, everything seemed transported from another time and place. Surely that flamboyant yet graceful chandelier had been made by the Bolognese artist Giuseppe Lorenzo Briati, who had died in 1772, and whose innovations had allowed the Venetian glassmaking centre of Murano to compete with all Europe?

And the ceiling - wasn’t that fresco a clever interpretation of Giovanni Battista Tiepolo’s _The Meeting of Anthony and Cleopatra_? When aged only thirty, in 1744, Tiepolo’s paintings in the Palazzo Labia in Venice had brought him great fame. Thank goodness Amadeo had not thought to re-interpret Tiepolo’s _The Triumph of Marius_ ; this would have been more than Bianca could have endured.

Plump crimson armchairs and couches, their curved and crouching legs, their intricately carved frames gleaming with gold leaf, were positioned around low tables of mahogany inlaid with slivers of mother-of-pearl. The arrangement reminded her, momentarily, of her old salon. An uncomfortable shiver snaked along her spine.

That carving on the writing desk and tall bureau must surely have been executed by Victor Amadeus III, the 15th Duke of Saxony, his craftsmanship revered long after his death in 1730. And most poignant of all, right there on the wall which had swung open at Amadeo’s silent command, were two elaborately-framed pastels by one of Bianca’s favourite artists, Rosella Carriera, whose portraits had been avidly collected by Frederick Augustus II, Elector of Saxony, and also by the Grand Duke Cosimo III de Medici. Rumours had once implied that it was only Bianca’s skilful introductions which had brought renown to Rosella’s art, but Bianca had always denied this, declaring that the lady’s talent alone had achieved this.

Yes, Bianca had met many of the artists and craftspeople whose work Amadeo had collected here in this fabulous room. She had known them and talked with them - and while she hoped Amadeo’s purpose had not been to cause her pain, he most certainly had. She could not speak with it! Right here, all around her in this hotel room, was a monument to everything which she had willingly abandoned to go to Marius’s aid.

But it was not this sacrifice which had given birth to her long-nursed resent.

Bianca knew she should speak. There was so much she wanted to say to Amadeo, so much she wanted to ask, that she hardly knew where to begin! She permitted him to sense these reactions. She was taken aback by the sheer splendour of the room and by the onslaught of unbidden memories which would have overwhelmed her had she allowed it.

She gazed silently at the smiling illusion-of-a-boy. Why had he gone to this enormous trouble? This room was surely Amadeo’s creation; it had his invisible signature all over it. Why had he done it? For her? Last time she had glimpsed him, in a dank woodland on the fringes of old Paris, he had icily banished her from his company. She remembered the ragged trousers and filthy coat he had worn then, which had reeked of stagnant earth and unspeakable filth.

Bianca allowed Amadeo to sense her memory of his words, her belated recognition of him, her distraught bewilderment, her broken heart.

And all those long centuries had slipped away, and not one word had come from him….

And now this room, this celebration of all which they had both lost; what did it mean?

Bianca had felt almost nothing for far too long, yet now she was trembling with emotion. She looked at the black cord which she had removed from Amadeo’s hair, and she knew she would not give it back, not unless he especially asked for its return. She smiled at her own whim, then reached her fingers to very lightly caress his face and let him sense that she bore him no trace of ill-will.

She looked around the room again, and this time she smiled. Yes, it was clever and beautiful. Her gaze returned to Amadeo as he offered her the use of this place. She smiled a little wider, having already regained absolute poise. With her hands still in Amadeo’s own, she indicated towards a hidden elevator with a faint nod of her head and simply said, “Show me.”

The elevator carried them deep below ground.

Bianca smiled faintly as she gazed appreciatively around another private room. Its décor was not dissimilar to that of her quarters on her yacht, _The Ocean Pearl_. She wondered how deep underground they now were, how truly secure she was from intrusion by other vampires. She glanced at the closed door which Armand had silently told her opened into the daytime resting place – but wouldn’t every vampire on this island have at least an approximate knowledge of its whereabouts?

The elevator was the only exit from this room.  Who had access to the power supply? Could this subterranean room become her prison? Bianca felt confident that, if need arose, she could smash her way through the elevator’s roof and climb the shaft to the surface. She had not survived for this length of time as a solitary being without taking extreme security measures.

Distrust had become a part of the very fibre of her soul ever since Marius had dismissed her companionship the very moment it had suited his purpose. Was he here? The thought sliced into her heart like a shard of jagged ice. The unexpected pain, coming so swiftly on the heels of disturbed memories, troubled and intrigued her. How would she feel to look upon Marius again? But she didn’t want to think about him yet. Not yet, with Armand so near.

Bianca needed to feel certain of Armand’s intentions towards her. That time in Paris, he had been so aloof, so cold, so vibrant with intimations of brutality. And then the long silence… And now here he was, the smiling immaculate teenager – to use the modern term for this fleeting phase between childhood and true adulthood; smiling almost shyly and fiddling with a desktop notepad, as if he was once more the hesitant pupil which she had known so long ago. The weight of time felt oppressive. She sighed tiredly.

There was so much she wanted to say, but where to begin? Once they had shared so much, but that was long ago and who knew the depth of experience within each of them since those divinely precious years? How much mutual ground might they now still share? The blood; Marius’ bloodline flowed through both of them still.

Bianca smiled softly and confidently moved closer to Armand, knowing that her mind’s shields had allowed him to know all her internal dialogue. She slowly rolled the ribbon which she had taken from his hair, and smiled with a hint of warm mischief as she watched him watching her slip it into her pocket.

She watched for any reaction in his fathomless amber-brown eyes, on his serene delicate face, as she lifted both of her hands to lightly caress his perfect jaw, slowly sliding her hands into the cool silk of his divine tresses. She paused, watching for any sign of rejection, then swiftly and deeply she bit into her own tongue and let her rich blood fill her mouth. She could feel the tingling fluid spill as she slowly lifted her face to Armand’s to tenderly open her lips to his.

She had ceased to breath and didn’t know it. The carmine jewels of precious blood were gone from Amadeo’s soft lips with a flick of his pale tongue. Her gaze opened to his, their two minds circling like performers on an unwatched stage, each movement taken with hesitancy lest one or the other of them might overstep the rhythm of this cautious dance.

Bianca hated this! She hated the distance which yawned between them.

She offered him her memories of long ago, of their laughing and playing like two boisterous children free of the restraints of society. She remembered their games – dice, cards, chess or whatever impromptu nonsense had taken their whim. She remembered lying carelessly on beds of pillows while Amadeo read poetry and tried to play Riccardo’s flute; or when he had raged and wept at whatever tutorial torment he had been enduring. What was it Amadeo had complained so heatedly about? Ah yes, having to learn Venetian law and long-discarded Roman law! (Now both discarded…) She remembered his tears and his laughter, and the possessive, impulsive passion of his youth, and the stolen kisses which he had wrongly thought secret from Marius.

So much had happened since those precious, precious years.  So much….

But enough of the past! Enough of it! Deeper discourse could wait; goodness knows they had all the time in the world to pore over every facet of their strange existence, their turbulent histories.

Bianca half-closed her eyes as Amadeo’s cold dry palms cupped her face.  She felt him shiver at even that slight intimacy. Her gaze still flowing into his, she slowly slid her gentle hands from his elbows up to his shoulders, aware of the expensive cloth of his suit and of the solidity of his arms within the sleeves. The lightly padded shoulders were buried under his ever-delicious auburn curls. Her long, pale fingers softly sank into the silken coolness of his hair, and she smiled. How she had missed this simple caress!  He had made no protest when she had untied his hair and helped herself to his black silk ribbon. It had been such a childish gesture on her part, really, but it had brought her delight.

Bianca’s fingertips tenderly traced the flawless smooth skin of his cold throat, her smile growing wider, her eyes still locked on his amber-brown gaze. And for a moment she felt once more to be the girl she had once been, and time and history meant nothing at all and all things which lay between those golden Venetian years and this very moment had been but a protracted and dreary interim.

On impulse, she curled her arms around his slender neck and buried her head into the curls cascading around his shoulders, sighing almost imperceptibly. Her emotions a maelstrom of joy and regret, she whispered, “Forgiveness? Am I without error that I can apportion blame? We both know it is not so!”

She raised her face to meet his gaze again, the faintest of frowns lining her brow as she searched his face for his response. “This one thing only I ask of you, Amadeo. Never let such time lie between us again.”

 

***

 

Later, Bianca watched as the suite doors closed between herself and Armand. He had left her for a time, promising to return. A vague smile hovered at the corners of her mouth but her eyes were as Arctic stars, cold and hard and unreadable.

She waited only moments before reaching for the elevator controls, having no intention of remaining in what could so easily become a carefully contrived prison. She remembered Armand’s malicious threats spoken all those years ago outside Paris, and the startling images which she had gleaned from his mind when this topic had just now been broached. Such darkness of mind and zealous cruelty, such bleak despair had she seen within him. Was this still an active part of Armand? It was too soon to tell.

Armand had clearly exerted himself in the planning of the hotel room. It was beautiful but she loathed it utterly. It reminded her of everything which she would rather not think about. Yet she knew Armand had not intended this, and so she decided to overcome her repugnance and use this room as a lounge.

However, there was no way on this earth she would entrust her day-time safety to the hidden vault below. Who else knew of its location? Bianca knew better than to trust any vampire, for while she had no enemies, she also had no friends. She had already made other arrangements elsewhere, which would remain her little secret.

But now she was hungry. The familiar thirst burned within her, quietly demanding attention. The smile hardened on her cold lips.


End file.
